American Politics Journal

A Letter to Sally Quinn: Vominatrix of The Washington Post
"You depraved gadget. You merchant of detestation."
By Mac MacArthur
Managing Editor
American Politics Journal

July 9, 2001
Washington, DC

Dear Ms. Quinn:

I read your "note" to Congressman Gary Condit yesterday.

I actually thought I was going to puke, I was so nauseated by what you wrote.

Don't you remember when you were a rumored adulteress? Or how you helped bankrupt your own husband's marriage so many years ago when you were called a young upward mobile "slut" -- of the Monica Lewinsky variety?

That aside, how are tricks these days with old "Uncle Ben?" Can he still respond to your creepy howls?

Here is a dose of your own medicine:

Insofar far as Mr. Condit's present situation, there is nothing "cliché" about denying an affair with someone who may be a corpse lying somewhere in the bulrushes of the Eastern Shore of Maryland.

Don't you and Uncle Ben have a home there? Could you both have kidnapped Ms. Levy and murdered her to "get" yet another Democrat with a future?

I am also wondering what Abbe Lowell has to do with this pap you write -- or, for that matter, your favorite example of who you really are: Bill Clinton. We always hate the people that come closest to us in custom and duplicity, don't we?

Of course, Ms. Quinn, you snide exemplar of White trash, you choose to focus on the fact that Mr. Condit is "not a suspect" -- telegraphing, of course, that he really is a suspect.

Well, of course he is, and you, under some laws it seems a shame we repealed, would have been burned in a stock for what you did to the ex Mrs. Bradlee, not to mention all the "River Club Girls" he might have had since. Can you imagine their

disappointment?

You revel in other's misery, Ms. Quinn. You revel in their all-too-human error. Especially sickening is that you exploit and revel in the possible death of a beautiful young woman -- a woman you aren't and have never been, it seems.

And you couldn't wait to tell us how "you know" that Condit actually had sex with this woman. Well, of course you knew.

You are well trained, and certainly have a lot of experience, in this area -- do you not?

You say "we know the script by heart" when you really mean that YOU know the script by heart, You see, I know about you, Ms. Quinn, and I know several of your aging friends who "knew you when" -- and of course, you know what I mean about that -- don't you?

And they do talk, as you say -- they do talk.

I think Condit should have resigned the moment the airborne waitress revealed that he attempted to blackmail her into lying to the FBI and to you and your useless bloodsucking friends -- those who have already been tossed into the blast furnace of history, cremated from our midst, as your memory must be someday.

You claim that "most people" don't care whether Condit had an affair. But they do care, because wanna-be scum-diggers like you never let a sleeping dog lie, never fail to use other's misery to further your self-proclaimed leadership of a gaggle of has-beens that yet swarm around your cob-webbed life and giggle over your mendacity and worse.

Even now, you cannot resist obsessive mention of Mr. Clinton, whom you said wasn't worthy of your hospitality -- even though you are nothing and he is revered and lauded by some 70% of Americans. If anyone knew who you were, you would be loathed by the same Americans.

And "evasions?"

Have you admitted here or anywhere else your own peccadilloes, your own hateful treatment of other women and their families? Have you ever looked in the mirror and seen the horrid lines and peaked skin that marks people who suck at the teat of evil to get there "rocks" off? You are evasion personified -- self-immolating, self-important, a self-constructed shrew.

You ask Condit, "Wouldn't it better to be known as an adulterer -- if that's all that happened -- than to get mired in what could turn out to be a murder investigation?

Yet you know, even as you write, that no matter what he "admitted", it is none of your damn business, or the business of the atrocious newspaper you represent -- managed by people who made their careers on the wretched destruction of others, be they Nixon or Mr. and Mrs. Clinton -- and worst of all, their children of those couples.

Yes, they were wrong -- but wrong enough to make you? To give you a career?

What the police should do is use your fictional "sniffer dogs" to search for your ugly soul, so crushed by self-loathing that I would not be surprised to find that you might usually cut yourself with tiny razors -- tiny cuts that remind you that you are still alive.

You couldn't care less about Chandra Levy, her suffering parents, or her grieving Aunt. If you did care, you would remain silent and in church. All you do care about is wasting ink on cheap recycled newsprint once used to wrap fish.

You ask why Condit didn't "invite" Mr. And Mrs. Levy to his office. Did you invite the former Mrs. Ben Bradlee and the rest of your husband's then-harem to your office and describe in detail your lascivious sex acts with your once-handsome stud who hung his jock on several dozens of bedposts when, and perhaps after, you snatched him away?

The gall -- to use Howard Berman, a man you publicly loathe at your disgusting soirees, complete with food and wine poisoned by your odor and the reek of other peoples sex.

As you did with the Clintons, you now seek to judge yet another for attempting, fruitlessly of course, to save his marriage to a beautiful and quietly horrified woman -- not a crone such as you.

Which of us cares about how many cell phone calls Chandra made to her lover Condit? None of us -- only you, who are steeped in the filth of your own dime-novel existence and would sit and write about this for nothing more than an unduly and overly fat paycheck.

Tell me: who giggles -- as you must -- when they read the vulgarity you call opinion journalism?

I guarantee you this: our readers not only giggle, but they belly-laugh over your writing -- and also pity you as they do your "sisters" like Peggy Noonan and Camille Paglia, sell-outs, women who sold their souls to the devil for their 15 minutes of fame. You all manage to live off your own excrement, your own collective and infected secretions in the form of bad pseudojournalism.

You write that Condit's behavior is "baffling." Baffling? No. It is people like you, who live under the desks, bars and hotel beds that force people like Condit -- a sociopath who needs to be "loved" by his constituents -- to flee from the truth, and hide their weeping heads in the sands of brassy women and hateful men who call themselves writers but are, in reality, scandal-seekers of the forlorn breed.

You have the gall to print that "Chandra" -- as if you knew her or anyone like her -- "admitted to her mother in April that she was having an affair" with Condit and that "she spoke at length since last Thanksgiving with her aunt about the times she spent" with Condit in his apartment, "eating Ben and Jerry's ice cream together and going out for Thai food in the suburbs."

But you have no idea at all whether any of this is true -- none -- and if it were, how dare you put it down, those youth-filled dreams, for all to gloat?

You remark snidely about Ms. Levy thinking Condit looked like Harrison Ford -- writing that this is a "reach." You are pathetic, making stingy entertainment of the naïve words of a star-struck "little girl."

Again you strike like a Doberman bitch in heat, comparing Condit to O.J. Simpson and the Ramseys -- of all people -- people who are so unimportant, so out of the loop to anyone save you who dwell in a house of voyeurism and depravity so ghastly that rats wouldn't stay for lunch.

You dub the aged and wrinkled dyed-red waitress-cum-sky-slut and adulterer Anne Marie Smith "a truth teller" -- by innuendo. You give her your imprimatur of co-vampiress. What was it that propelled Ms. Smith to appear on Fox News Channel -- the pinnacle of hate television to which you must be constantly tuned as might Dracula, hang, upside down, at the local blood bank for "nutrition?"

You write, "Women talk, Gary. Women talk."

No, they don't all "talk" Ms. Quinn. They don't all make a living from peddling the secrets and the heartbreak of others, now, do they.

And after you write that, you launch into another fantasy that only a rabid guerilla like you could dream up. You repeat, again by innuendo, the preposterous excuse that Smith thought she was going to be killed because she got some "weird phone calls."

That's what you meant, isn't it Ms. Quinn? Isn't it?

You paint the picture -- but you don't always in point of fact utter the lie. You don't have the guts. Even Hitler frankly and openly admitted he hated the Jews, yet you -- perhaps as evil as he was -- refuse to simply write what your indecent mind truly thinks. Instead you insult and refer to another loser, Vince Flaminimi, "The Driver"-- who in reality is just another loser who wanted to be on TV as another Quinn-Stamped font of truth.

You depraved gadget. You merchant of detestation.

You're insecure, Ms. Quinn, thanks to your own pockmarked past -- so much so that you must tell us (by implication, of course) that you are "jetsetter" and could afford to "drop by" in Dublin and London where you falsely imply that most "people" were "caught up" in this event.

I was in London recently.

Nobody was talking about Condit. Nobody.

Were you doing your interviews in seamy bars where women in sweat pants down quarts of gin to drown their personal misery and look to the Condits of the world to verify they are still alive? Did you feel at home there?

You sneer at talk shows offering one nasty Condit-Levy scenario after another, yet you do the same -- worse -- because your husband once convinced the world that the Post is a credible newspaper, even though it's nothing of the kind. You feed on that perception of credibility. You feed off your employer to pull the wool over stupid people's eyes.

You pose the same questions as the lowliest of talk show hosts -- titillating the morons you appeal to, teasing their microscopic lizard brains.

You claim that Washington "thrives on" talk -- but Washington isn't the only locale that subsists on despair. You count on that universal mournful truth. You cry out and yearn to appear on The Tube, looking slovenly, hair carefully raked to looked beach-blown like Jackie's hair -- am I right? -- the woman you most likely wish you were.

Yet your hair just looks olive-oil-grimy, poorly dyed and as badly cut as your clothing.

You lecture Mr. Condit, "You blew it." Yet wasn't it you that "blew it" when you leisurely and lusciously pilfered your husband's life?

You end your claptrap with talk of a Condit and Levy as a "juicy beach read, an entertaining bit of gossip" -- never thinking that most people don't have a chance for a "beach read," and that the majority of Washingtonians have no time for gossip and slave away for people like you and the government and McDonald's at slave wages.

You never think how you insult, do you. Or do you? You live in a fantasy world of "protestant" values which almost no one shares.

You end telling us that Ms. Levy is "quite possibly dead."

You write that this isn't amusing -- yet you earn trash-money amusing your audience with the possibility, and lynch another Democrat to amuse your masters.

If Chandra Levy is lifeless in some dumpster, on some mountain top, or floating, now peacefully in the sea, then blame yourself, you revolting and miserable harridan, and your derelict colleagues who actually take money to make life miserable for harmless sex-feasors -- people who are the way you once were -- so desperate and depressed that their only childish and desperate choice is to die.

In a way, Ms. Quinn, you and your kind may have murdered Chandra Levy and Vince Foster and the soul of Dick and Pat Nixon, and the happy college life of Chelsea Clinton.

You are, by far, the weakest link.

Mac MacArthur